


Your Gift Is A Millstone

by hart_and_sole



Series: Roaring in my Heart [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Unreliable Narrator, instinct driven sex, non-standard a/b/o dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:10:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hart_and_sole/pseuds/hart_and_sole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson thought becoming a werewolf would keep him at the top of the pack. Little does he know, he's not as much of an alpha male as he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Gift Is A Millstone

**Author's Note:**

> Written post series one. AU in that Scott and Allison never got back together. 
> 
> I'd also like to point out straight off the bat, that the alpha/beta/omega dynamics in this series are my own interpretation, since it was written before season two explained their use of the terms more clearly. It isn't really comparable to the popular, pan-fandom alpha/omega tropes either, especially the further into the series you get. Just a heads up, in case that was what you were expecting.

Jackson remembered a time when he’d looked at Scott McCall and burned with unfamiliar jealousy. Effortlessly stronger, faster, better at _everything_ (better than Jackson), and all he could do was whine about it. He remembered his own certainty that he would do it better.

For a while, after Derek had bitten him in the old burned out Hale house, it seemed like everything was going exactly according to plan. He listened to every piece of advice Derek had (reluctantly) doled out; used it to hone his senses and his control until he was as perfect a werewolf as he was an athlete; a student; a son.

Only now Scott was looking intently at him from across the locker room, brow furrowed, frowning, and Jackson had to force himself not to squirm under the force of that gaze. He pulled his lacrosse jersey over his head and yanked on his gloves as he shut his locker, ignoring the fact that all he could hear was Scott’s elevated heartbeat; that little catch in his breath as he realised what his nose was telling him.

“Jackson, what have you done?”

Jackson jumped, startled, darting looks around him to see if anyone else heard. They hadn’t, of course, no matter how loud it had sounded to him, but Danny was looking at him with his eyebrows half crawling into his hairline. “You okay?”

Jackson shook his head, trying to clear it. “Fine, Danny. I’m fine.” He wasn’t, though. Not when he could feel the weight of Scott’s glare on the back of his neck. Something in him wanted nothing more than to go over there and show his belly. He shuddered at the thought. Jackson Whittemore didn’t submit to anybody. He wouldn’t.

He breathed a little easier on the field. Running drills was the closest thing to free Jackson ever felt, mind wondrously blank and body flying through the routine on instinct. He didn’t even notice that everyone was looking at him until the whistle blew and suddenly Coach was there gripping his arm and looking at him as if all his birthdays and Christmases had come at once.

“I don’t know what you did to your usual workout, buddy, but keep it up!”

Jackson grinned in self satisfaction, and no small amount of relief. Maybe the werewolf thing was good for something after all. He felt on top of the world for a moment, his future stretching out before him in effortless wins and performances no-one could hope to match -

“What do you think you’re doing, you idiot?” Scott hissed at him, suddenly up in his face, mask to mask. His eyes shone gold and his lips were curled into a snarl.

The wolf in Jackson wanted to whine and bare his throat in supplication. He smirked instead, and said sweetly, “Nothing you haven’t done yourself, you hypocritical little prick.”

Scott growled, low in his throat, and stepped closer. Jackson made himself stand his ground. Scott huffed out a breath. “Just pull it back a notch, okay? Nothing a human couldn’t do.”

Jackson snorted. “Show a little more control than you ever have, you mean. Don’t worry, Scotty, I’ve got that down, at least.”

Scott pulled his helmet off, rolled his (brown) eyes, and strode purposefully over to Stiles.

Danny clapped him on the shoulder. “Leave it to you to improve on perfection, man. You’re a machine!”

Much as Jackson usually revelled in the kind of adulation Danny was currently lavishing on him, all he could do was nod absently and stare at Scott as he stomped around and waved his hands around in exasperation. It wasn’t much to focus his new ears in on their conversation.

“I can’t believe he would do something so stupid!”

Stiles scoffed. “I think it was probably a toss up between begging Derek to bite him or waiting for the technology to finally replace all his inferior human parts with cyborg upgrades. I’m just saying, the guy has a complex…”

Scott paced in tight circles, tugging at his hair. “He’s just so…ugh! Was I so...”

One of Stiles eyebrows raised comically high. “Dense? Pig-headed? Deaf to the good sense of your amazingly intelligent and highly sensible best friend? Yes, Scott. Probably worse.” At Scott’s crestfallen look, he amended, “but at least you weren’t a dick about it! Usually. Well, you didn’t mean to be…and I’ll be shutting up right about now.” Then his eyes flicked over to Jackson, and his mouth gaped open gormlessly. “Scott, he’s watching us.”

Jackson schooled his expression into his usual disdainful smirk, and waved.

The whistle shrieked, and Jackson fought off a wince. Across the field, Scott rubbed at his ears discreetly as he jammed his helmet back on.

“Okay, ladies! If everyone’s done with the chit chat, it’s time to get to work. I want the first string to run this new play against the second string. Second string, make them work for it. You! Bolinski! If you impress me I might even let you on the starting line again next season.”

‘Finally, down to business,’ Jackson thought. ‘Time to see what this new body can really do.’

Since he and Scott were on the same side for this run through, there wouldn’t be much chance to finally put the little shit in his place. Oh, sure he could play rough, but Danny put the biggest guilt trip on him last time, and it wasn’t something he wanted to repeat. He might not be able to outright body-check the kid, but he could sure as shit freeze him out. Bad sportsmanship, sure, but coach wouldn’t give a crap if Jackson was playing the game of his life.

The first play required him to pass off to Scott, which he ignored, charging through several idiotically brave freshmen to score the first goal.

“Jackson,” Coach yelled, throwing his clipboard to the ground, “That did not resemble what I asked for, but that is just the kind of initiative I wish all these little worms would employ. Good job, buddy!”

Jackson grinned to himself, satisfied, and ignored the waver of guilt he knew couldn’t be his. He refused to look at Scott. No, Stiles -relegated back to second string - gave him the head shake and the recriminating look instead.

The next couple of plays alternated between Jackson hogging the ball and Scott snatching it out from under him, leaving pretty much everyone else in their dust. It was sort of…fun, in a way he wasn’t used to letting himself feel during a game, and he found himself grinning behind his mask at Scott when the kid managed to get there before him.

Until Stiles Stilinski somehow managed to run right into McCall’s path, stick flailing every which way. Later, he wouldn’t be able to say what had come over him. Later still, he would realise that Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee had been executing a moronic plan to try to make Stilinski look better on the field, but in that moment, when Scott tripped over Stiles’ stick and came crashing to the ground with the sickening, muted ‘crack’ of bone snapping, Jackson lost it.

He ran at Stiles full power, knocking him into the mud; the air forced from his lungs in a great whoosh. Jackson sprawled over him, pinning his shoulders to the ground, teeth bared in wordless threat. Stiles’ eyes widened, and he stammered out, “Jesus Christ, Jackson, calm down, man, _please_!”

Somewhere in the distance, a whistle blowed, and suddenly strong hands were pulling him away. Scott turned Jackson to face him. “Oh crap - your _eyes_!” he hissed. “They’re _silver_!”

All Jackson could seem to focus on was the way Scott was cradling one arm close to his chest. He knew that it was broken. He took a deep breath, and stilled his body. Made himself _not_ turn on Stiles again.

Scott leaned in close as everyone gathered round to gawk. “It’s all right - it’ll heal in a minute,” he whispered, low enough for only Jackson to hear. He waved his (still broken) arm around at everyone as if to assure them all it was in one piece. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Stiles, you okay?” he said, leaning down to help the other boy up.

Stiles looked at Jackson warily, still gasping in air, trying to get his breath back. “Yeah, just about. Scott, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to -”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m indestructible, remember?”

“Okay, guys, show’s over,” Coach shouted. “Everyone back in your places, as long as McCall’s good to go?”

Scott nodded, but stayed beside Jackson until everyone else had moved off again. He shook his healing arm out and clenched his fist a few times as if to test it. He caught Jackson’s gaze, eyes flashing gold for a bare second. “I don’t know what that was about, but if you hurt Stiles again,” he said, voice barely more than a subsonic rumble, “I will tear your damn throat out. Understand?”

Jackson wanted to nod; bare his throat; grovel at the authority and disapproval in that voice. He scoffed instead, and looked away, mind awhirl. What did it even matter to him if McCall got hurt? After that same little asshole had dislocated his damn shoulder at the start of the season, he ought to be fucking _happy_ to see karma bite him in the ass. Apparently his new instincts had different ideas.

Scott’s wolf turned an asthmatic, stuttering little dork who wouldn’t know what cool was if it slapped him in the face into a confident star athlete who’d somehow clawed his way right up to the top of the social ladder. Jackson’s wolf spent the entirety of the rest of practice trying to humiliate Jackson and hurl him right down to the bottom of that ladder.

It was like he had no control over his own body - every time he got hold of the ball he couldn’t seem to stop himself from passing it right over to Scott, desperate for his approval like some eager to please puppy. He was so quick and so rough in checking anyone that even came close to Scott that the other side just stopped trying. By the time Coach called it quits for the day, he just wanted to crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment.

He stood there and watched as Scott pulled his helmet off and gawked at him with that stupid, baffled puppy dog expression. Jackson - the _real_ Jackson - wanted to wipe that look off his face. The wolf was just happy that he wasn’t angry any more.

“What was that about? Sudden attack of conscience?” Danny asked, puzzled, laying a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. Jackson shrugged it off angrily and stalked off the field, refusing to look anyone in the eye.

He stood in the shower, eyes closed against the spray, letting the water beat down on him. Fighting down his mounting anger, and the change that came with it. The water chilled, turning icy cold. He stood there, shivering under the spray until he couldn’t take it anymore; some part of him hoping it would punish the wolf somehow.

Derek called it a gift. What good was a gift that made him weaker?

Eventually he made his way over to his locker, his towel tied round his waist. It was quiet now, eerily so. Everyone had gone home.

“You really are the stupidest person I have ever met.”

Jackson whirled around to see Scott lurking in the shadows near the door. He paused a moment to calm his breathing again. “Says the guy who’s failing, what… _all_ of his classes right now?” he bit out.

Scott frowned, moving closer. “Give me a break - I’ve had a lot to adjust to this year. Anyway,” he said, shaking his head, “that’s not the point. How could you go and throw yourself at Derek, after all I said to you? What part of ‘people are constantly trying to kill me and I can’t even control myself’ did you not understand?”

Jackson couldn’t help himself from shrinking back from the frustrated anger Scott was currently radiating. He hated himself for it. “What part of ‘I am a Porche, you are a Honda’ did _you_ not understand, you moronic little tool! I’m dealing _just fine_.” Fine, apart from the fact that his wolf was a total pussy that couldn’t deal with the disapproval of other werewolves.

Then Scott lunged at him, pushing him backwards over the bench, and he cringed. Scott was glaring down at him, growling; all ridges and hair and golden, golden eyes, and all he could do was whine pathetically and offer up his throat in supplication.

Scott paused, sniffing, and tilted his head quizzically. He leaned in close, nose snuffling at Jackson’s extended, oh-so-exposed neck. He…purred, sort of; emitting this oddly contented, rumbling noise that vibrated against Jackson’s skin. Jackson shuddered, stiffening with unwanted arousal. He _wanted_ …

Scott licked his skin tentatively, all the way from jaw line to collarbone, tonguing his Adam’s apple along the way, and groaned. He pulled back a scant few inches, looking into Jackson’s eyes. Scott’s own eyes, molten gold and heavy lidded, looked dazed; drugged almost. Jackson found himself whining low in the back of his throat and pulsing against the warmth of that other body, hardness to hardness.

Scott rubbed himself against Jackson’s towel clad erection, then gave out a low, frustrated growl. Suddenly hands as strong as steel were grasping him; turning him, and he was leaning over the slatted bench seat, ass in the air; towel slung uselessly on the ground. In the back of his mind, somewhere beneath the raw need and desire, Jackson knew that his own unthinking submission was something that probably ought to horrify him; disgust him. In that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He whined, helplessly, and raised his hips in the air, waiting.

Hands gripped his hips from behind, and something nudged at his exposed opening; wet and hard and inexorable. A howl pierced his ears as a cock pierced his body, and they both stilled as Jackson froze with momentary pain.

“Are you okay?” A voice, low and inhuman and shuddery, in Jackson’s ear, and all he could do was throw his head back and moan, writhing back onto the cock that impaled him.

He could see his own clawed hands clenching and unclenching against the bench, gouging parallel lines into the wood, and it didn’t even feel like him. Wouldn’t it just be so easy - to let go? To let both of their wolves take what they needed? “More…” he whispered, trembling.

There were teeth, suddenly, on the back of his neck, and then Scott let go, thrusting with abandon. Jackson moved with him, meeting him thrust for thrust, frantic. Scott reached beneath and curled one not-quite-human hand around Jackson’s dick, claws carefully out of the way, and pumped.

Close, so close, he could feel it, and then something bumped against Jackson’s opening, and _holy_ _shit_ , there was just no way in hell that was going to fit. Beneath the pheromones that he was drowning in, the part of him that got straight A’s and read National Geographic and somehow remembered the word _knotting_ sat up and took notice, and his whole body stiffened in alarm.

Before he could even speak, Scott gentled against him, mouthing against the nape of his neck. “I won’t, don’t worry, I won’t…” he breathed into Jackson’s skin. The wolf trusted that voice, and Jackson relaxed, that rising fear morphing into a palpable sense of frustration at Scott's continued slow, gentle pace. He ground his body backwards, tilting his face back for a hard, bruising kiss. Scott gasped into his mouth, surprised, hand tightening on his dick, and suddenly Jackson was coming, and everything was blinding white and ecstasy.

He came to with Scott lying close against his back, panting. Jackson’s wolf was sated; sleepy, leaving Jackson with an increasing sense of mortification and no primal, base instinct to hide behind.

Behind him, Scott mumbled incomprehensibly to himself and shifted off Jackson. The rustle of cloth told him he was hastily getting dressed. Jackson stayed sprawled on the bench, head in his hands, and wondered if it would really be too much trouble for the earth to just open up right now and swallow him whole.

Scott cleared his throat, and Jackson made himself look him in the eye. No need to make himself look weaker than he already had.

“Jackson…look, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what came over me.” Scott ran both hands through his already tousled hair - it looked like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket. Jackson almost laughed.

Scott was looking at some point in the distance, eyes refusing to focus on Jackson’s still naked body. “Much as I hate to say it, I think we should go talk to Derek.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jackson ground out. He pulled himself up, wincing despite himself. Everything ached. He began to pull his clothes on. “We made a stupid mistake. One we won’t be repeating. Get over it.”

“But -” Scott said, reaching towards him.

Jackson smacked his hand away, snarling. “No buts. Stupid mistake. Won’t happen again. Ever. End of.” His voice was cold as ice, unfeeling.

Scott scoffed. “Fine,” he bit out, a hint of petulance creeping into his voice as he stalked away. He paused in the doorway, and said over his shoulder, “Is this what you wanted, Jackson? Are you happy now?”

Jackson waited for the door to swing shut before he punched the nearest locker with all his strength. Then he banged his head into it for good measure. What was he going to do?


End file.
